


Nailed It!

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: American Airlines, Baking fails, Bucky is no help, Domestic, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Ficlet, Fluff, Freebird - Freeform, M/M, Not a drop of angst to be found, Seventy Missed Birthdays Make Steve Rogers Sentimental, Steve Rogers is a Depression era baby, They Boiled Everything, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14472084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Steve refuses to let Sam’s birthday go uncelebrated. For reasons. And baking a cake can’t bethathard, right?Right?





	Nailed It!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esaael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esaael/gifts).



> Written from a prompt from the lovely esaael, who indulges my insanity and my obsession over this ship. She asked me, “I wish you would write a fic where... Steve bakes Sam a birthday cake. How well he succeeds is up to you ;)”
> 
> So, here it is.

“I really wish you were here to help me sort this out,” Steve grumbled as he paced the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets. “What’s the difference between baking powder and baking soda? Can I use one if I don’t have the other?”

“You’re askin’ the wrong guy, pal. Just wing it. Both of either one of them should work, right? You can use both of them to _bake_ with, if ya go by the names, Stevie.” Bucky sounded completely unsympathetic, voice slightly garbled by the speakerphone and road noises in the background.

“You used to bake with your ma,” Steve reminded him impatiently. “You never learned anything from her?”

“Nope. She wouldn’t let me or Becca within ten feet of the kitchen. Didn’t want us stomping dirt across her freshly mopped floor or spilling crumbs.” 

Steve huffed a laugh under his breath. Winifred Barnes had put Lucy Ricardo and June Cleaver to shame. Sarah Rogers, by contrast, kept their meager apartment clean as a pin when she wasn’t working at the hospital, but she couldn’t cook to save her life. 

Even if Steve’s reminder on his phone hadn’t chimed at him that it was Sam’s birthday, it burned its way into his brain all week, making him fret and stew over what to do for him. Sam warned him ahead of time not to make a fuss, fighting a losing battle with his boyfriend who had missed seventy birthdays, thank you very much, and he was allowed to fuss over celebrating Sam’s.

Natasha listened to his fretting for twenty minutes, smirking at Steve over the rim of her latte, and she left the room, only to duck back in five minutes later to inform him that she called in a favor from an “associate” and scored him a dinner reservation for two at the fussy, exclusive Russian restaurant downtown that had a view of the harbor. She suffered his hug of gratitude and patted his cheek before warning him that he was forbidden from wearing khakis; she had a reputation to uphold, which she could not do if her teammate showed up dressed like a PTA dad. Her smile was benevolent, but her tone was just threatening enough to send him to his ironing board with steel gray silk suit. 

In the meantime, though, Steve wanted to do something personal. Special. Sam already loved the sketch Steve did of Sam’s parents’ back yard after they visited for their wedding anniversary. He framed it and hung it over his fireplace and often glanced at it with a smile when he didn’t notice Steve was watching him. And another sketch would be fine, but it didn’t scream “Birthday” like a cake. 

Which only left one problem.

Steve. 

_Couldn’t bake._

“The recipe says to grease the pan. What do I grease it with?”

“I dunno. Bacon grease? Ma used to save it in a jar, for some reason.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Then I got nuthin’. Sorry, pal.”

“Not helping.”

“I don’t even know if I’m using the right kinda pan.”

“Eh. How big is the cake?”

“It’s two rounds. You stack ‘em. Like a standard birthday cake.”

“Gonna frost it?”

“I’m gonna try.”

“Why don’t you just use a boxed mix?”

“Because that’s not baking. And the cake tastes like ‘box.’ I wanna make him a good cake.”

“What kind is it gonna be?”

“Chocolate. I was thinking of making a peanut butter frosting.”

“Screw boxed mix, then. That sounds really good. Save the leftovers. Hey, I’m gonna go, we’re almost at the extraction point. Clint’s gonna meet us on the roof.”

“See if I help you the next time you hafta bake _him_ a cake.”

Bucky snickered before they rang off. Steve scrubbed his hand through his hair and sighed, staring around the kitchen as though it wanted to eat him. 

“Right. Let’s cook.”

 

*

Let’s cook.

Famous last words.

Steve called Sharon, and he found himself stuttering out a flustered apology when she sent him back a furtive text that she was stuck in a conference. She called him back a few minutes later and tried to calm him and make some sense of what he needed.

“Okay. How far have you gotten so far with this little project?”

“What do I use to grease the pan?”

“Butter. Or you can use nonstick spray. Just make sure you flour the pan, too.”

“Wait… flour the pan?”

“Sure. Just sprinkle in a little flour after you butter it, and shake it around until its coated. Helps to get the cake out of the pan more easily once it’s cooked.” Her voice sounded amused. “Have you really never baked before?”

“Working mom. Grew up in the Depression. Went straight into the military and never started a family,” he reminded her in deadpan fashion. “But, sure. I had time to learn gourmet pastry skills when I wasn’t jumping out of planes.”

“Cute.”

“So. You butter the pan?”

“Yup. Just rub a stick of butter around the inside of it until it looks covered. _Lightly._ ”

“Okay. And then it says something about ‘combining all the dry ingredients.’”

“Yup. It’ll turn out better if you sift them.”

“Sift? Do I need a special sifter to do that?” 

“A spaghetti strainer will work, too. Hey, I’ve gotta go. I have another meeting in ten minutes, and I need to print out my reports. Have fun. Hope it turns out.”

“You can use a spaghetti strainer to sift dry-”

“Bye, Steve!”

Steve stared down at the “Call Ended” screen in resignation. “ _Fuck_.”

Twenty minutes later, the counters were spattered in blobs of batter, fragments of sugar-crusted butter where the beaters had flung it everywhere after turning them on and lowering them in, and flour dusted every surface, including Steve’s shirt and jeans. He was sweating up a storm from the heat of the kitchen and trying to clean up as he went along, chucking the egg shells that were slightly stuck to the counter from where the whites had dripped; it took six attempts at cracking an egg before he managed not to get bits of shell into his batter. Steve wondered if he beat the batter enough; once he checked YouTube for a cake tutorial, he realized he’d baked it too long after he got it into the oven, and he kept inwardly kicking himself.

To his credit, the kitchen smelled richly of chocolate and vanilla extract. He had managed to put two cake pans filled with reasonable looking batter into the oven, and he had two hours to get everything ready before Sam came home from work. Steve worked on the frosting, then cursed at himself when he realized he had no idea what confectioner’s sugar was, let alone if there was any in the cupboard.

“JARVIS?” Steve said aloud. “Help a guy out?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Do we have confectioner’s sugar?”

“Right cabinet above the stove, top shelf, sir.”

“If you were human, I’d kiss you.”

 

*

Sam wandered into the kitchen, dropping his lunch sack and the pile of mail on the table, and he exclaimed in surprise when he saw the plate in the center.

“What on earth…? Steve? STEVE! Did you do this?!”

“That depends,” Steve mentioned from behind him. “Do I have to take the credit or the blame?”

Sam chuckled, clapping his hands. Steve flushed and rubbed his nape in embarrassment, and Sam just kept laughing. 

“Did you get mad at it? It looks like you punched it! Oh, Lord…” Sam kept giggling, but he tugged Steve back by the wrist when he tried to retreat. “No, no, we need to commemorate this. C’mon, pose with it, that’s impressive…”

“It’s not that bad…”

Sam’s laughter grew, making him double over before he looped his arm around Steve’s waist. “Oh, my gosh… that’s fantastic, baby.”

The frosting had melted a little in spots because Steve had been anxious to get it on the cake and didn’t let it cool completely first. The second cake pan was more full than the first and it overflowed the brim of the pan. It was slanted and uneven when Steve took them out of the oven, cursing over the smell of the batter that burned when it dripped down onto the heating coil inside. 

Steve managed to pry both cakes out of the pans, accidentally gouging out a chunk from the bottom of one where he hadn’t greased the pan adequately. He ended up filling in that patch with a frosting, but it didn’t make it look much better. Steve wondered if bakers needed an engineering degree to assemble a cake that didn’t look like a condemned high rise. 

And it was a birthday cake. Steve used the writing icing out of the tube and scrawled Sam’s name on it, throwing on some candy sprinkles to make it look a little more festive. Still, though...

SO MANY THINGS WENT WRONG WITH THAT CAKE. Steve was exhausted, and he wasn’t optimistic at this point that Sam would even want to eat it. But Sam pulled him in and kissed him, still chuckling.

“S’not funny, Sam! I worked hard on that damned thing!”

“I know that. I’m tickled pink. You made me a cake. My man loves me enough to make that much of a fuss over me.” Sam’s dark eyes crinkled, and Steve’s arms crept up around his neck. Sam was wearing him down, and he couldn’t hold onto the disgruntled feeling at this point. Sam leaned in and nuzzled Steve’s nose with his just to mess with him. Steve pretended to duck his way out from under it, but Sam kissed his cheek and tickled him, poking Steve’s sides. Steve tried to wriggle away from him, and the two of them stumbled up against the counter, snickering and kissing until Steve sighed in defeat.

“It won’t mean that I love you any less when we buy one from the bakery next year.”

“Awwwww.”

“Happy birthday, Sammy.”

“It is, you know. I’m happy right now. This was nice.”

“I did good?”

“You did good. C’mere. Gimme my birthday kiss.”

Steve tipped his head a fraction and brushed his lips over Sam’s, pulling him close. Sam smelled good and felt solid and welcoming. Amusement was replaced by slow, quiet passion as they lingered over the kisses, Steve’s reward for his efforts. (And for cleaning up the ransacked kitchen.)

They polished off generous slices with help from a tub of Ben & Jerry’s spooned over it to hide the damage.


End file.
